


good.

by captainskellington



Category: Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, RPF, author succumbed to peer pressure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 00:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13376097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington
Summary: Finding out he was into guys? Not exactly expected, but not an unpleasant realisation. Falling head over heels for his gorgeous, excruciatingly talented, probably straight anddefinitely marriedco-star, however?





	good.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to any subscribers who read this, I'm sorry I've been completely absent for the past year and I really want to change that going into 2018. RPF is... really not my thing? But by god if I won't do anything for my friends. Very intentionally strayed away from factual info both to fictionalise what I was writing and because I'm... very ignorant about how movies happen. Hope y'all like it anyway.

Honestly, what did they expect?

They had thrown them into almost the _exact_ conditions that had spawned a passionate romance in the story they were portraying. The greatest difference? _Those_ two men were living in an era where said romance was heavily condemned, demonised; they were terrified of what they were coming to terms with even as they loved every minute of it.

Now? Not so much.

That wasn’t to say Timothée wasn’t afraid. He was, but… not like that.

Finding out he was into guys? Not exactly expected, but not an unpleasant realisation. Falling head over heels for his gorgeous, excruciatingly talented, probably straight and _definitely married_ co-star, however?

Why did it have to be _Armie Hammer?_

***

Armie is just infuriating. That is the only word for it, infuriating.

Timothée watches him from where he sits across the cobbled square, at a wrought iron table set of the sort that only seem to exist for the purpose of crowding around late at night surrounded by friends, twinkling lights, laughter, and the scent of cigarette smoke. Armie tosses his head back with a joyous whoop of laughter at something one of the camera crew says — Timothée can’t see who, they’re hidden behind the irritatingly broad span of his back.

He scowls and looks away with a surge of determination. Slumping down in his chair, he kicks his legs out straight in front of him and shades his eyes against the setting sun with one hand. It drapes a warm light over everything it touches, even the shadows cast by the beautiful old buildings of the quaint little town are welcoming. It’s too late to film any more for the scene they just wrapped, but there’s nothing else they are fully prepped to work on yet so everyone is just… idling. It’s so peaceful.

A hand touches his shoulder and he starts, sitting bolt upright again. Luca offers him a can of soda with a carefully blank expression.

“Shut up,” Timothée mutters.

“I said nothing,” Luca says, but his eyes glitter with amusement.

Timothée has no reply for that, so instead he dutifully sips at his drink and does his best to squint anywhere but the general area Armie and the crew are in. When he inevitably fails, Armie is nowhere to be seen. He frowns, then someone taps on his shoulder and he turns, almost missing the strong arm that loops around his other shoulder and plucks the drink from his hand.

For a big guy Armie can sure move quietly, and he takes great joy in creeping up on people. The first time Timothée discovered this he had, amidst a string of expletives, asked how exactly he managed to do that, to which Armie had deadpanned “Russian spy,” before cracking that winning grin Timothée was absolutely smitten by.

Not that he knew that.

At least, Timothée hopes not anyway.

“Grazi,” Armie teases in a singsong voice, downing what remains of the drink and squeezing Timothée’s shoulder with his free hand as he collapses into the chair beside him.

“Jerk,” says Timothée, but he can’t keep the smile from his face. Armie is infuriating, but that’s not _his_ fault; it’s Timothée’s problem to deal with and he accepts that. Armie is, above all else, simply an absolute joy to be around.

“You good?” asks Armie, and Timothée nods. That’s something he really appreciates; after every emotionally taxing scene — and boy, were there a lot of those — Armie would check how he was doing. It maybe didn’t seem like much, but that small act in itself proved Armie more considerate than most other actors he’d worked with over the years combined.

“You?” Timothée returns, after a moment. Armie smiles, his hand still a welcome weight of warmth on Timothée’s shoulder as he nods too. He holds his gaze, and there is something churning deep in Armie’s eyes that Timothée can quite get a read on. He feels his heartbeat pick up and desperately wills his mounting blush to stay down, hoping the dying light of the sun accounts for any change Armie might perceive in his face. He wonders if he can feel his thumping heart through the hand on his shoulder, which is just a ridiculous thing to even consider, but with the way the world around them seems to stop for that handful of heartbeats he isn’t really sure of anything anymore.  

Finally the older man looks away, watching the camera crew secure the last of their gear for the night. Timothée releases the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and, with a guilty pang, it occurs to him that Armie had been helping them to pack up while he himself had been brooding in the corner of the square, like an ass.

His eyes drift from the crew to Armie’s profile, made even more beautiful by that slow, crawling sunset. He grins to himself, unaware he’s being watched, and the only word Timothée thinks can even approach how he looks in that light is _glowing._

He notices a faint scratch on Armie’s neck and he feels a surge of pride — not to mention other feelings — when he realises he must have left that mark during rehearsal, and _god_ he can’t believe he gets to call kissing Armie a rehearsal.

He clears his throat and looks away before Armie notices him staring, only to catch the eye of Luca about halfway across the square. He didn’t even notice the director leaving their table, but there he is, watching everything that goes on. Timothée feels heat rise in his face, but Luca does nothing but look from Timothée to Armie, raise his eyebrows, shake his head minutely, then walk away to engage one of the locals in conversation.

“Come on,” Armie says, and before he can respond Timothée feels the touch on his shoulder slip down, fingers lightly dragging against his skin, until Armie is grasping his hand. The contact leaves a trail of rising goosebumps in its wake as Armie pulls him to his feet, but if he notices he doesn’t say anything. “Time to go.”

Timothée, blinking up at his beautiful friend in the light of the sunset, finds his breath catching in his throat, so he says nothing.

Armie goes, and he follows, fingers entwined like they’ve simply forgotten to let go.

***

“I hate this,” Armie mutters. Timothée tries so hard not to look too amused, he really does, but then Armie looks at him and he can’t hold back a decidedly unattractive snort. “Shut up,” Armie groans, returning to gazing apprehensively at the set.

“Come on, you’re not doing as bad as you think you are,” Timothée says, patting him on the back in consolation and just… letting his hand stay there when Armie doesn’t seem to mind. He’s not even lying that much. “Nobody’s laughing at you.”

“Alright, let’s go again, take four,” comes the call, and Armie heaves a sigh before going to take his place.

Poor Armie. Timothée just had to sit there and stare mildly obsessively at him, which they’ve already gotten enough footage of, and until Armie manages to actually make it through the start of the scene he doesn’t have anything else to do.

He glances over to him as the cameras begin to roll and Timothée gives him a thumbs up and a grin. Armie looks away before he can drop character, but he sees the quick hints of a smirk before it disappears.

He doesn’t know if he’s helping Armie, but it’s sure making him feel better.

Then he has an idea, and before the music starts he grabs some of the others behind the camera and gestures enthusiastically. The sound guys, extras, anyone else who isn’t occupied and needing to stay stationary.

So when the music starts and Armie glances over to wait for the cue, all he sees is the entirety of the cast and crew dancing — terribly — in silence behind the cameras.

He laughs, and this time when he starts it’s more carefree and real than the previous attempts. Timothée is so absorbed in watching him, grinning and dancing away himself, that he almost misses his own cue and has to wipe the mildly smitten look off his face as he lopes in front of the camera and joins the dancing himself.

He’s done far more ridiculous things in his short career, he doesn’t care, and the rest of the crew are still dancing in the background regardless.

This time when they yell “cut”, Armie crosses over to Timothée with three long strides and gives him a bear hug that lifts him off his feet.

“You are absolutely ridiculous,” he says. “Thank you.”

When his feet touch the ground again Timothée sways, heart fluttering like a caged bird in his chest, and is only stabilised by Armie’s strong arm around his shoulders.

In the end, that’s the take they use for the finished movie.

***

One day between takes, Timothée is staring at his — Elio’s? — bike, itching to get on it and just go somewhere, anywhere that isn’t here. His brain is fogged with cobwebs, his limbs and tongue are clumsy, tripping over simple obstacles, and his heart feels heavy in his chest. He loves his job with all his heart, but sometimes he still has those days. The need to get away, blow off some steam, run or cycle or dance until his breath screams in his lungs and his legs ache.

It’s his fault they keep having to do more takes, the script just won’t stay still in his brain and more than once he’s issued a groan of sheer frustration that’s prompted a “CUT.” Nobody holds it against him, it happens to everyone and they know this. _He_ knows this. But it’s still just… not great.

So he’s outside for some air, staring at his bike, leaning against the wall of the villa. His foot taps rapidly on the ground, and his fingers drum against his arm, and he just wants this day’s shoot to end so he can do something to get out of this funk, to feel alive.

And that’s where Armie finds him. His mouth works, but no words find their way out. He scrubs his face with his hands so he doesn’t have to meet that concerned gaze.

A quiet creak has him looking through his fingers. Before him, Armie stands, wordlessly offering the bike.

Timothée curls his fingers around the handles, brushing against Armie’s hands before he lets go.

“I shouldn’t,” he says.

“I’ll cover for you,” Armie says, and his heart swells in his chest and swings a leg over the bike.

“No,” Timothée says as Armie begins to walk away, hand outstretched as if to try and stop him, to pull him back. He surprises himself when he says, “Come with me.”

“Timmy,” Armie says, but that’s all he has to say. The look in his eyes is one — and Timothée doesn’t know how to cope with this — but it’s one he’s only seen before when Oliver looks at Elio.

Armie does nothing for a moment, then gets Oliver’s bike and gestures for him to lead on.

Timothée feels like his entire world is balancing on a wire, and he can’t for the life of him figure out why.

By the time they return, the world is bathed in moonlight.

Nobody comments on their absence.

***

Though there are undeniably bad days during the shoot, the light and laughter of the summer heavily outweighs the times that are anything less than wonderful.

There is one instance in particular that leaves Timothée lighthearted and saturated with adoration, despite the burden it leaves with him.

It’s nothing, really. He stays up too late Skyping his family back home one night, and suffers for it the next day. His exhaustion suits Elio’s mood and he manages to fight off the yawns when the cameras are rolling, but between takes the cast and crew offer him concern, opportunities to nap, and a pretty much constant stream of snacks; all of which are appreciated — this truly is a family — but none of which are necessary.

He’s a millennial. He can work on little to no sleep.

It’s a good day. The sun is bright, the air warm, the breeze gentle and welcomed. Scenes are wrapped with very few takes, and Armie is excessively gentle in their conversations.

It’s amusing to him that he apparently seems so delicate that everyone is so concerned for one night of poor sleep.

It is also the first time it really occurs to him that he is the lead in this movie. Like, he knew, obviously he _knew_. But there’s a difference between landing a role in a movie, and landing a leading role in a movie so inherently destined for greatness due to the story, its heart, and the pure driven passion for everything about it so blatantly obvious in its entire cast and crew.

It makes him a little dizzy. Or maybe that’s just the heat mixed with exhaustion. Still, someone hands him a glass of water and Armie puts a steadying hand on his lower back when he sways a little on his feet, so it’s not all bad.

Anyway, he makes it through the day, and it’s definitely a good day. Someone, somewhere, decided they should have a barbecue for dinner — family bonding — in the warm evening air, and he sits down on the grass with a burger in one hand feeling as though he may have actually died and gone to heaven. In front of him is a gently crackling fire, more for aesthetic than any heat or cooking purposes — although the girls are definitely roasting marshmallows over there.

The air is tinged with a pleasant aroma of smoke, trodden grass, and that specific scent of a warm summer’s breeze as everyone eventually gravitates towards the fire, some settling down beside him on the ground. Armie bumps his shoulder with his own as he chooses the spot to his right and goes back to chatting with Michael, one of the only people sensible enough to have procured a chair.

Timothée chimes in with scattered conversations; laughs at a largely unintelligible yet hilariously told story involving a shopping cart, a corgi and an elderly gentleman being bounced back and forth between Luca and Amira — the authenticity of which he sincerely doubts, politely declines a smore from Esther and Victoire who are covered in marshmallow guts and apparently high on sugar, chats loosely about photography with a cameraman whose name he guiltily realises he can’t remember,

And then he blinks and the sky has gone dark. The only light sources discernible through the mess of his hair, carelessly drifting over his eyes, are the silvery moon and the fire, now made more necessary by the evening chill creeping into the air. He’s also horizontal, his head is resting on something soft, and someone has just that moment laid a blanket over him.

He peers out through his eyelashes, disoriented, not quite awake, and reluctant to alert anyone to his state of consciousness after he was so kindly awarded a blanket. He closes his eyes and nuzzles into whatever pillow he’s been resting on, and is about to drift off again when an ever-so-gentle hand begins to card lazily through his hair.

That’s when he realises he can feel the low buzz of somebody’s voice thrumming through his pillow, a voice he knows all too well, and his heart melts just like one of the marshmallows he declined minutes — hours? — earlier.

He knows without opening his eyes that he’s resting in Armie’s lap, that it’s his carefully low voice directed at someone he can’t see, that it’s his fingers tenderly tracing indiscernible patterns through his hair.

That’s when he realises he’s in love. That it’s not just a crush or physical attraction, but he genuinely wants to pour his entire heart out to the man, even if it never gets returned. It hurts, yet it’s the most beautiful feeling — but it _hurts._

So he lets himself, just this once, drape as closely over Armie as he can suffer without his heart actually bursting open. Around them, the chatter continues. Nobody notices. Nobody comments, except to sympathise over tired old Timmy.

At some point Armie’s hand ceases its pattern and settles on his shoulder, just above his heart. By then, he’s already drifted back to sleep.

He won’t remember being carried to bed, or the soft, hesitant kiss that is pressed to his forehead at the end of the warm night.

***

One day when they have time, they go for a cycle like they did back when they were first getting to know each other, before they’d stepped into Elio and Oliver’s shoes.

“—something beginning with ‘A’!” Timothée yells as he pushes off from the top of a hill, flying down the dirt road at top speed, feet high off the pedals.

Their surroundings are just stunning. At the bottom of the hill lies a vast field of wildflowers flanked by sprawling woodland and a crumbling stone wall, the curve of the road cut off from sight by a beautifully overgrown bank of greenery on. The road below them is dappled with shadows of leaves swaying in the warm breeze, the dry earth crunching below their tires the only noise besides distant bird calls and the rapidly spinning spokes of their bikes.

He hears a whoop as Armie follows, his shout of “what language?” almost stolen by the air that rushes past.

“Italian,” he calls back, rounding the corner and squinting as his eyes adjust to the sun, even with the barrier of his sunglasses.

“Look out!” Armie yelps, overtaking Timothée and shooting past on the flat road, open shirt flapping behind him.

“Weight advantage!” Timothée laughs, wheels turning too fast to even try catching up yet.

“‘A’?” Armie shouts.

“Stop stalling!” Timothée says. “Give up?”

“No,” Armie glances over his shoulder, and Timothée sticks his tongue out and grins. “I don’t speak Italian!” he says.

“That’s why we’re _learning,_ ” Timothée says as he pushes the pedals again, finally recovering from the downhill freefall.

“Asshole,” he laughs, pointing back at him. “There’s your ‘A’ word!”

“Not in Italian,” Timothée grins. “Watch the road!”

Armie grins back and turns away, obviously letting Timothée catch up with lazy pedalling. Timothée’s legs are starting to complain with the effort, but he barely notices and slows as he gets level with Armie.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Timothée says, and literally just gestures towards the nearest tree with his arm.

“Uh,” Armie says, and he breaks into a grin as Timothée laughs at the look on his face. “Aaaaaaah… _arbre_?” he guesses.

“That’s French, dear,” Timothée shakes his head. “ _Albero_ ,” he corrects.

“Don’t call me ‘dear’... darling,” Armie deadpans, and Timothée nearly loses control of his bike. Hoping Armie will think it was merely a slip on the loose debris scattered across the road from the trees, he concentrates his efforts on gaining speed again.

“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with— hey!” Armie cuts off as Timothée sprints away. It takes him very little effort to catch up again, the guy is made of muscle and probably hasn’t even broken a sweat yet. Timothée, meanwhile, is fairly certain he’s going to collapse soon.

He turns to gauge the distance between them and sees the determination on Armie’s face shift quickly into horror, opening his mouth to shout a warning just before he hears the blaring horn.

He yanks the handlebars and goes careening into the rough terrain at the side of the road as a truck barrels past, travelling far too quickly around the bend on such a narrow road. He can hear Armie yelling, cursing after the driver from where he’s pulled into the side and leapt from his bike just to be safe.

Then, moving at speed and unable to use his brakes on the leaf litter and gravel, he actually does lose control, and a twig snagged in the spokes of his tire sends him flying over the handlebars and — luckily — through a space in the crumbled stone wall. He lands hard on his back in the field, crushing a dozen clumps of flowers and winding himself but remaining otherwise miraculously unharmed.

He coughs harshly as Armie shouts his name, vaulting over the low wall and falling hard on his knees beside him.

“Timmy? Hey, anything hurt? No, don’t try and sit up yet, just stay still for a minute,” he swears quietly then looks him over. Then he’s pushing Timothée’s hair off his face with one hand and gently pressing the fingers of the other against his chest, checking for injured ribs, which really isn’t helping with the breathing thing. “Did you hit your head?”

Timothée slowly shakes his head, but he doesn’t see so he tries to speak. “I’m— shit, I’m fine, just,” he coughs again, and this time Armie lets him sit up, supporting him with a hand at his lower back. He wheezes and puts a hand to his chest, and only then does he see the look on Armie’s face. It’s an expression saturated with panic; brows furrowed, eyes wide. He’s breathing slightly slower than hyperventilating, and Timothée impulsively reaches out to comfort him.

“I’m fine, just — breathe,” he says, and he doesn’t know whether he’s talking to himself or Armie. His fingers lose their grip on Armie’s shoulder and slip downwards and then he can feel the rapid heartbeat pounding in his chest, imagines he can almost see the frantic rhythm playing across the strip of skin visible through his unbuttoned shirt.

Armie scrubs his face with his hand, then Timothée blinks and he’s crushed against him, face against his shoulder, Armie pressing a firm kiss to the top of his head. A heartbeat passes, then Timothée returns the embrace.

Some detached part of his consciousness remarks that this entire scenario is somewhat romantic; a tight embrace surrounded by a field of wildflowers, the only people for miles, their bikes abandoned together at the roadside. If his life is a romance, he wishes it would just get to the good bit already.

“We’re getting you a fucking helmet,” Armie says.

Timothée just nods.

***

They’re filming by the pool, a scene where Armie rolls frustratedly into the water while Timothée stands by, bemused and holding papers handed to him earlier.

His sunglasses are dark enough that he can get away with staring out of the corner of his eyes while he pretends to read the papers, and he does so with no little amount of glee as well as a dash of guilt. It’s just too much to resist, Armie lying there on his back, sun-baked and dressed in nothing but his ridiculously small swim shorts. To retain some of his self-respect Timothée keeps his eyes above waist level — mostly — but there’s still plenty to look at even then.

He’s trying to convince himself he isn’t salivating when Armie rolls into the water and Timothée forgets for a moment his scripted movements, taking an aborted step to try and prevent the fall much too late to be of any use and then just spreading his arms in the universal gesture of “dude, what the hell”, papers still in hand.

They abruptly call cut then — something wrong with the mic, probably, they’ve been having trouble all day — and Timothée waits for Armie to resurface. It’s a bit of a hassle having to redo scenes like this because they have to get Armie sufficiently dry enough to avoid continuity errors in the final cut.

It’s fine, though. They have time. Timothée sits by the poolside, tossing the papers to the side and kicking his legs idly in the water.

Armie re-emerges by his side and shakes his head, covering Timothée with water droplets and frowning. “Technical difficulties?”

“Yup,” he replies, glancing over to where they’re trying to fix the mic. There’s a lot of shrugging going on, so it’s probably not going great.

When he looks back Armie is looking at him, still crouched low in the water — it’s not a deep pool.

“What?” he says, suddenly self-conscious. Armie smiles, which doesn’t help at all, and drifts in front of him, which helps even less.

His hands grip Timothée’s legs just below the knee, and the fact that his hands are about large enough to completely encircle them would be too much to deal with in any circumstances, but coupled with Armie literally being between his legs he’s finding it very h— difficult to remember to breathe.

He doesn’t move, he just stares. His heart is pounding, blood roaring in his ears, he’s shaking, and he’s certain Armie can definitely feel at least one of those things. “Armie?” he says, and his voice sounds as shaken and nervous as he feels.

And then Armie yanks him forward and they both tumble into the water, Timothée using the split second in which he realises what’s happening both to yell in alarm and cling to Armie’s shoulders for dear life.

The cast and crew don’t even look up. They’re used to them by now.

It’s bright underwater, barely filtered sunlight dancing all around, and Armie still has a hold of his legs as he sinks to the bottom of the shallow pool. He’s not grinning now, only to prevent air from escaping his lungs, but his smile is almost as brilliant. Timothée wants to yell at him, call him an asshole, but there’s something intimate about the hidden depths of the pool and he doesn’t want to resurface any sooner than he has to.

He playfully hits Armie’s with a clenched fist in retribution, but the drag of the water softens the blow even further and his hand merely ends up resting on the other man’s chest. Armie releases one of his knees to capture his hand, but instead of removing it he keeps it there even as they softly bump against the bottom of the pool, their legs tangling together for want of anywhere else to go.

Timothée becomes aware of his own heartbeat again in the muffled silence of the water. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head to show his annoyance and Armie can’t restrain a snort of laughter, bubbles erupting towards the surface and leaving them behind.

Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen. Maybe it’s the feeling of time standing still as they float, perilously close and almost entwined in the water. Maybe it’s the sheer happiness and openness and _care_ of Armie’s expression, or that he hasn’t let his eyes leave Timothée’s even once. Maybe it’s because of the mischief he pulled him under with, or the gentleness with which he refuses to let him surface.

Maybe it’s because he’s still holding his hand.

Timothée uses the leverage of that hand secured in Armie’s to pull himself close, closes his eyes, and kisses him.

He doesn’t see Armie’s reaction, his mouth opening to return the kiss, or the stream of bubbles that escape them both and dance together to the surface, impossible to differentiate between as they rise.

No, he sees none of this. But he feels the hesitation, feels Armie’s grip slacken in surprise, releasing him to drift back to the surface.

Because of that, he doesn’t linger. He kicks away, leaving Armie behind.

By the time Armie breaks the surface and heaves himself out of the pool, he’s already gone.

***

For the next few days Timothée can’t meet Armie’s eyes.

He does his best not to become distant, much as he wants to. He doesn’t want to hurt the man he— his friend, and he values Armie’s friendship more than anything.

Armie, for his part, is every bit as warm and welcoming as ever. Timothée can’t tell if that’s the best or worst case scenario.

They do the scene where Elio tells Oliver he has feelings for him in the most convoluted way possible, and his chest physically hurts with empathy for his character.

When it’s time to leave, he’s halted by a hand around his wrist.

“Hey,” Armie says, voice low. Timothée glances at the others, but nobody has noticed they’ve fallen behind. “You good?”

Armie isn’t even trying to imitate the easygoing way he would’ve asked the same question only days earlier. Somehow he fills those two words with so much heartfelt concern Timothée doesn’t so much as consider lying or brushing the question off.

He worries his lower lip between his teeth and blinks under Armie’s unwavering gaze, then shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

Armie’s gaze shifts beyond Timothée and the hopelessness that seeps into his face is something he would do anything to rid Armie of. Then he meets his eyes again for only a moment before pulling him into a hug.

He keeps one arm around him for a long time after that. And, honestly? Timothée is just grateful for the warmth.

***

Another week and they’re almost back to normal. Almost. Timothée is still acutely aware that he’s in love with his costar, and keeps catching him watching him with a look on his face that he still can’t read.

It’s almost easier being Elio.

Almost.

Some of it is barely acting. The longing looks and barely concealed frustration is all him, although he does soften it a little so nobody thinks he’s overdoing it.

Offscreen he tries to avoid Armie unless he’s with other people, not sure whether he’s doing it for his sake or his own.

Luca calls him over to watch back a scene they just filmed. He’s offering suggestions for improvement — angles, movements, lessen eye contact here, more hesitation here — when Timothée becomes aware of Armie’s presence at his back. Two gentle hands fall on both his shoulders, and even after everything the familiar pressure soothes him somewhat.

Timothée looks over his shoulder — and it’s still annoying that he has to crane his neck to look at him — and he glances away from studying the footage to flash him a brief, brilliant smile. It vanishes as he gets absorbed in the small screen once more.

“That,” he says suddenly, pointing to the screen and squeezing Timothée’s shoulder. His face is beside Timothée’s now, and the proximity makes his heart flutter as he tries to focus on the part of his performance Armie has honed in on. “Do that next time, too. It’s so…” he struggles for the words, and in his frustration he slides his hands down to grip Timothée’s upper arms. Armie doesn’t even notice he’s doing it, which makes it worse because it’s _killing_ him.

“Engaging? Compelling?” Luca offers, and Armie nods at both.

“Yeah, but… something more, too. It’s perfect,” Armie says. “It’s Elio.”

Timothée crosses his arms and nods, at a loss for words. When everyone begins to return to their places for another shot, he turns to him.

“Hey, Armie,” he says, voice low, and his friend turns around. “Thank you. I really appreciate that. Everything. Just… it means a lot coming from you.”

“I don’t think you realise just how amazing you are, Timmy,” Armie replies, nonchalant, as if he’s stating the colour of the sky or commenting on the weather. As if it’s something he believes with all his heart, with utmost sincerity.

He’s fully aware that he’s looking at Armie like he hung the stars, but he can’t find it in him to stop.

***

He doesn’t know what to think.

He borrowed Armie’s phone to take some photos because he forgot to charge his own overnight. He’s sitting on the grass, about to go looking for him to return the phone when it starts ringing, the screen lighting up with a photo of Armie and Liz.

“Armie?” he calls, looking around for the owner of the phone, but he’s nowhere in sight. He could just leave it, but he feels bad for making him miss her call, so after a moment of hesitation he swipes to answer.

“Hello,” she trills, elongating the “o”, and when she appears on screen Timothée realises he had almost forgotten how beautiful she is. “You’re not the man I married.”

“Sorry, Liz,” he says with a laugh, though his gut twists with a mixed pang of guilt and sadness. “I don’t know where Armie went, but he shouldn’t be gone long.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, and she’s scrutinising his face in a way that’s… a little unsettling. “I was hoping to catch you on your own, anyway. There’s something we should talk about.”

Timothée feels his heart skip a beat and he can’t respond, working his mouth, sheer anxiety splashed across his face. He should hide it but in that moment, he can’t.

“Timmy, hey,” she soothes, and she looks genuinely concerned. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing — look, I’m not going to —,” she sighs. “I shouldn’t have worded it like that. Look, I… I know, okay?”

Timothée just shakes his head. She can’t be saying what he thinks she’s saying. It was only a kiss, did Armie really tell her? God, of course he did. He’s just _wonderful._

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally.

Liz looks away from the screen, clearly trying to pick her words carefully so as not to scare him with what she says next.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says. “You _aren’t_ doing anything wrong. And neither is Armie.”

He frowns. She smiles.

“Look, I can’t speak for him. There are things he has to tell you for himself, but he… well, he doesn’t want to ruin what you have, and I just wanted to tell you not to give up,” she laughs at the confusion in his face. “Sorry. I’m not making much sense, am I?”

He shakes his head slowly, heart pounding.

“What I’m trying to say is, some people...” Liz says. “Some people only love one person and that’s it. Others love more than one. And if they’re lucky enough, their partner feels the same way and supports them.”

Timothée wonders how fragile he must look that she feels like she has to speak to him like a child, but he appreciates it. Especially if she’s saying what he thinks she’s saying. He can barely dare to breathe, and — Jesus — he’s completely missed the last ten seconds of whatever she’s been saying.

“The only condition is, if either of us thinks it’s serious… the other gets to meet the new partner and it’s their say whether it can continue. And, Timmy?”

He nods.

“I can’t wait to meet you again.”

His mind is whirling. “Armie — he hasn’t… I mean, I don’t—,”

“Please, try not to worry about it. I just… Armie told me about what happened in the pool, he thought he had missed his chance, but I figured it was something else. He needs to take his time, and you both have decisions to think through, but I didn’t want you to go on feeling guilty for how you feel. There’s nothing to feel guilty about, Timmy,” she shifts and the image blurs for a second. “I approve,” she says, voice gentle.

He swallows, hard, and realises he’s blinking back tears. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Just promise me you won’t let him get away with anything I wouldn’t, he’s a rascal and cannot be trusted with absolutely anything,” she grins, and Timothée laughs, and it’s slightly hysterical, bubbling from him like it’s been trapped within him for a long time. Maybe it has.

“I better go, give that idiot my love,” she says warmly. “And for that matter, give yourself my love too, you look like you need it.”

“Thanks, Liz,” he says, and his whole heart leaks into those two words. Judging by the look on her face, she can tell.

He stares blankly at the idyllic wildlife that sprawls before him for what could be minutes or hours, before Armie reappears from wherever it is he’s been hiding.

“Hey,” he says, then catches his faraway look. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Timothée smiles hesitantly. “Liz called, by the way. She sends her love.”

Armie freezes. “Oh?” he says carefully. “You spoke to her?”

“Yep,” Timothée says breezily and gets to his feet, catching Armie off guard by tossing him his phone back. He fumbles, nearly dropping it.

Timothée claps his shoulder on the way past, not trusting himself to be able to contain himself, this overwhelming emotion he can feel creeping over him.

He glances over his shoulder to see Armie watching him as he leaves, and for the first time he finds himself greeting the warmth in his chest from seeing the man with — not guilt, not uneasiness, not despair...

But hope.

And wow, does that feel good.

***

They have a scene in a beautiful sea of long grass where he... he has to try and kiss Oliver. And Oliver isn’t exactly receptive.

Which hits a little closer to home than Timothée feels comfortable with at the moment, even considering the conversation he had with Liz the week before. Armie still hasn’t said anything. Obviously he hasn’t either, Liz made it clear that he needs to take his time, but he wishes there was something he could do to make Armie realise he isn’t alone in this… thing he’s feeling.

They spend the time between takes and director’s comments irritating each other in a good natured fashion, which makes things easier. For some reason, Armie hates getting torn-up grass piled on him, so of course Timothée makes it his mission to stack as much debris onto Armie’s legs as he can possibly manage before they have to shoot again. Which leads to a very childish battle of grass catapulting and a brief but amused lecture on acting like adults while they try to shoot this movie, thanks guys. All the while they’re firing looks at each other out of the corner of their eyes, and when Luca turns his back for a moment Timothée elbows Armie in the side and Armie lets out an indignant squawk.

When they have to cut halfway through a shot because Armie has a stray bit of grass clinging to his hair, he shoots Timothée a withering look and it’s all he can do not to double over laughing. He does manage to compose himself, but Armie is barely concealing a grin and shaking his head, clearly trying not to laugh, and that’s almost enough to set him off again.

It’s then that he distantly hears Luca say, “was that a raindrop?”

They look to him, peering at his outstretched hand, and in the second it takes him to confirm his suspicions the heavens open and a torrential downpour sends everyone scattering for cover.

The crew bundle up gear and head for the transport, which Timothée knows would be the sensible option… but some mischievous part of him balks at the thought of cramming himself in with everyone else, soaked to the skin, and sends him turning and sprinting to the leafy cover of the nearby forest.

It’s closer than the vehicles anyway, he reasons.

By the time he finds himself deep in the forest’s embrace his chest is heaving with the sudden burst of exertion, and he lets out a breathless laugh. He leaps over a fallen tree, nearly snagging his shirt on a low hanging branch and stumbling to a halt, barely managing to stay on his feet. The cover isn’t complete, and he staggers under a break in the canopy and lifts his face to the sky, closing his eyes and letting the rain drum steadily onto his skin. He spreads his arms wide and just relishes the feeling of being alive, vaguely aware that he may be going insane.

A twig behind him snaps and he turns, still beaming, to see Armie standing there. He doesn’t ask why he followed him, just shakes his head and laughs again when the movement scatters water everywhere.

He raises his arms skywards and locks eyes with Armie in the pouring rain, barely mediated by the leaves above him. Reckless and so very alive from the sudden exertion of power offered by nature, he stands, defiant, as if to say _this is me._ He lets the careful mask he has to wear to disguise his infatuation slip and allows the full range of his emotion, his longing, his whole damn soul to flood across his face. And it’s a statement, and a challenge, and a promise, and it’s all offered to Armie with that single, heavily laden look.

He sees the moment Armie makes a decision. _The_ decision.

He crosses the clearing in only a few strides and then he’s kissing Timothée, both hands tangled in his drenched hair. Timothée clutches at the front of Armie’s shirt then abandons the material, throwing his arms around his neck and deepening the kiss with what can only be described as a whimper of pure delight.

Armie pulls away suddenly, ensuring a break in the kiss with a gentle but decisive tug at Timothée’s hair — which is… apparently a thing he has to come to terms with now. “We need to talk,” he says, breathless, but then his eyes flicker down to Timothée’s parted lips and his resolve crumbles and they’re kissing again.

Timothée wants to climb him, he wants to wrap himself around him and never let go, but he doesn’t want to scare him off again, and he — god, okay, he _knows_ they have to talk about this, that he’s married, he has a family and, okay, he feels awful about it despite Liz’s assurances that everything is alright, but all of that — it’s all very difficult to consider with a level head when he’s _kissing Armie Hammer_.

“We need to talk,” Timothée breaks the kiss this time, eyes hungrily taking in the details of Armie’s face from this distance. They’ve kissed before, obviously, this film demands it, but Timothée’s never felt like he was allowed to look, like he has permission. Until now, with rain-kissed faces, and his hands flitting from his hair to cupping his jaw to pressing against the back of his neck. Armie isn’t much better, hands pushing Timothée’s soaked hair from his eyes, resting on his lower back, a thumb pressing at the corner of his mouth before he drags it away again, suddenly shy.

Now they can look. Now they can touch.

“I know,” says Armie, and Timothée has forgotten what he said to begin with, and then they lapse into silence.

Around them, the rain continues to pour, and maybe they kiss again, and around Timothée’s shoulders Armie gradually wraps an arm, closer than before, like he’s something precious he doesn’t want to lose, and together they stumble through the trees and back towards the others, and Timothée distantly wonders how so much can change yet leave the world exactly the same.

***

Everything becomes more beautiful and more difficult all at once.

They talk — of course they do — and Armie blushes when Timothée quietly relays what Liz told him, sat by the flickering firelight of another cast-and-crew barbecue, but he isn’t mad — of course he isn’t — isn’t even really surprised.

There’s… a lot more kissing, a lot more… unscheduled rehearsing.

Sometimes the most difficult thing is stopping intimate scenes once they hear the word “CUT”.

Sometimes they just… pretend they didn’t hear.

Not that they try to flaunt what they have, that would just be obnoxious. But Armie’s hands linger on his arm, shoulder, lower back, around his waist, more than they ever did before. And honestly, Timothée simply cannot resist murmuring between takes, voice low, flirting like a schoolboy, all but fluttering his eyelashes. It makes Armie laugh.

He’s pretty sure the others know, regardless. He catches the girls rolling their eyes at times, the crew smirking, Luca just looking smug in general. They don’t really try to hide it from them, this is a family, after all, and real family understands even the most unconventional of lives.

***

The less said about those last days of filming, the better.

Seeing Armie on that train and thinking about… everything that has happened, that will happen, that _has_ to happen tears a hole in his chest, right under the ribcage, where it can’t be seen or felt by anyone but him.

Armie isn’t coping much better. He’s still warm and bright, but his smile doesn’t always make it to his eyes. In private, he is determined. He does everything he can to encourage Timothée to have the hope he himself doesn’t quite feel.

That very last scene doesn’t even bear thinking about. He just opens up his heart, allows that carefully constructed mask to slip and stares into a fire, and he’s told that’s what will win him awards.

He’s not sure he deserves it. Not just because they wouldn’t really have been worth what motivated the performance, but, well...

It wasn’t exactly acting.

***

It’s the press tour, and he’s terrified that soon everything will change. That this perfect bubble of warmth will shimmer its last before disintegrating into nothing but memory.

Potential awards for a romance are nice and all, but he would desperately prefer to keep the real thing when it took so long to be within his grasp to begin with.

“Who wouldn’t fall in love with Armie Hammer?” he says, loose-lipped from adrenaline, and it’s the truth, and the audience laughs, and the interviewer laughs, and Armie laughs, and then hours and cars and hotel rooms later he’s whispering the words against his lips and he’s falling, falling in so many ways, and even as the soft hotel mattress catches his body something inside him continues to fall.

***

“Who wouldn’t fall in love with Timothée Chalamet?” Armie says weeks, months later, in a different interview and it’s so sincere, so heartfelt, and he barely manages to laugh along with the rest of them as they lock eyes with a grin that’s almost shy, almost, but not quite. There’s something that lies as yet unsaid between them and this — this is the closest they’ve gotten, but that’s just careful, they don’t mind.

Liz, in comparison, tells him she loves him every time she sees him. He is more grateful for her than he thinks she truly understands.

He didn’t know a person could feel so much love in them all at once.

***

It’s months — years — a long time since they finished shooting. Since the movie was released. Since promotional interviews, press tours and awards shows and trophies and long flights.

Some things change.

Others…

Timothée stumbles off the plane, fumbling for sunglasses that he crams back into his pocket after a moment of thought. It’s dark outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, and this is a more private terminal than he’s accustomed to disembarking into.

He doesn’t have baggage to collect — everything he needs is right here — so when he passes the necessary checks he’s all but free. He squints at his phone then curses as the last dregs of its battery sputters out.

He scans the large airy room as he's jostled by the trickle of people still trying to leave, hoping to catch sight of somewhere to charge his phone, and that’s when he sees him.

Them.

Timothée’s heart pounds as he takes a step towards the man who is making short work of the distance between them.

It’s been… a while.

And he knows that it’s ridiculous — the stream of communication, of devotion, has been near constant — but he’s so scared of change.

Then Armie, no longer one for walking on eggshells when it comes to who he is — who they _are_ — scoops him up in his arms and kisses him, full on, spinning him in a circle like they’re in some ridiculous romantic movie — but one with a happy ending — and just like that it’s summer all over again.

“You good?” Armie mumbles into his ear once he sets him down, arm around his shoulder to steady his now dizzy and delighted partner as he directs them towards his — _their_ , Liz insists he’s part of it now — their family.

And, yeah.

He really is.

Good.

**Author's Note:**

> This is your fault. You know who you are. Heathen.


End file.
